Damned if He'll Have You
by Jacynthe Bleue
Summary: <html><head></head>Padma Patil considers the Ginny/Michael situation.</html>


I'll be damned if he'll have you…

Again, you have managed to reduce Michael Corner to gibbering incoherence.

"Talk to her, Padma. Make her understand."

And so I plead his case. I have my reasons.

You sigh and shake your head. "There must be something wrong with me. I must be an awful person. I mean … he's so nice … and all I do is argue with him. What's _wrong_ with me, Padma?"

There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, Ginny Weasley, but you're right about him. Nice … Michael Corner is the very Platonic form of _nice_, and he'll never understand why you despise him for it. _You're_ beginning to suspect, though, I know you are.

Ginny does _not_ need nice. Ginny does not need to have doors opened for her, or flowers delivered by House Elf Express. She does not need the pink silk scarf he gave her after their last row, which clashes hideously with her hair. "You could wear it, Padma. It would look great on you." I can't do that, though, and we both know it. Besides, pink is Parvati's color.

Pity about Michael. It isn't as if he's actually done anything wrong, by his own lights at least. He looks at me with earnest intelligent eyes that don't understand and never will. "_Please_ talk to her, Padma. I don't know what I've done to upset her again, but you always know what to say."

Earnest and clever and far too pretty to waste. What _will_ we do with Michael? Because he will _not_ have her. I won't let him.

We could give him to Cho Chang, now _there's_ a thought. Cho could use some nice after the Hell that bastard Diggory put her through. For years now, taking care of her has been my job; I could use a break. Then again, it isn't a task for the faint of heart.

Ravenclaw is not a House of innocents. We are not gentle with our own … just ask Luna. Clever, yes, oh Gods and Goddesses and little bouncing Cupids but we're clever. _Our_ drinking games involve solving arithmantic formulae and deciphering ancient runes, but you still feel like week-old owl shit in the morning. How many times have I carried Cho… lovely fragile Chang Cho Li, if Harry could see you now… how many times have I carried Cho to the bath on those mornings? She's heavier than you might think, but then I'm stronger than I look – generations of peasant ancestors our father says, and Mum just rolls her eyes: none of _her_ ancestors were peasants, thank you very much – how many times have I tended to my Older who was once my love, ebony hair matted with unspeakable effluvia and breath that would stun a dragon at twelve paces? How many times have I coaxed her back to life with warm water and gentle kisses?

No, we are not an innocent House. The fully-fledged … that's fifth year and up to those of you not up on your avian terminology… the fully fledged on those evenings of calculated self-destructive excess, somewhere between the euphoria and the catatonia, hold elaborate formal debates. We had one just last week. Resolved: the rise of Tom 'Voldemort' Riddle is a necessary evil for the wizarding world. It's a game for us; we know we'll survive. Even an evil overlord needs people who can get the sums right. We'd do it too. Most of us would. I would have done… before. Not now. Now I think of her.

She truly is innocent.

Ginny Weasley is innocent like the flowers and trees. She's lived among witches and wizards all her life, with just her family mostly, stuck out in a village at the arse end of nowhere without two Knuts to rub one against the other. She has no clue what the world is about. She thinks high is what you get on a broomstick. She's never been into Muggle London. She doesn't know any Muggle songs. She'd never heard of lip gloss until she met my sister … but that doesn't make her gentle or simple, and it certainly doesn't make her _nice_. Ginny Weasley is innocent like the fire, burning everything in its path without prejudice or pity, and yet not all … refining the gold and consuming the dross. Ginny Weasley is innocent like that. No debates for her; she's seen the enemy and he's dog meat. He just doesn't know it yet.

So how about this, dear Michael, how about _you_ carry Cho to the bath and I go immolate myself in the living flame? How much gold in you, Padma? How much dross?

But we all know the answer to that, don't we? She'd have me; I know she would. She'd rather Cho – wouldn't we all? – but she'd have me if I offered. I've seen the look in her eyes. She looks at me the way I used to look at Cho. She laughs at my complicated jokes. "You _are_ clever, aren't you?" she says. But my mind isn't all she admires. I see where you're looking, Ginny Weasley. I know what you're thinking. I think the same things. It doesn't stop you looking at Harry; I see that too. You'll have him, in time. You could have us all. Me for comfort and Harry for love and Cho bloody Chang for a dare…

But where you're going I can't follow.

There'll be no place for me on the death and glory ride that is your life, no place for one who thinks before acting. I think all the time. I can't help it. It's who I am. I think of copper hair and caramel eyes and if only that were all. But it isn't. I think of fighting and killing and know I couldn't do it. I think of being captured and killed and of what might come in between and know I couldn't bear it.

Is it so terrible to be afraid? There are so many things to fear.

When I was little, I was afraid of dogs and thunderstorms. Mostly, these days, I'm afraid of you … of Ginny Weasley who doesn't know _how_ to be afraid, and that's the most terrifying thing about you … of how you're so ready to die and take us all with you because you have a personal grudge against the darkest wizard of our time. I can't save you from that, and I can't go with you. All I can save you from is a nice well-intentioned boy who doesn't deserve you. That I'll do.

I'll be damned if he'll have you.


End file.
